


One Sweetheart Roll, One Dragon Roll

by soft_october



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, have all our dinners really just been dates?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 03:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18203027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soft_october/pseuds/soft_october
Summary: "Watching over the Antichrist will bring people together, he supposes, even though Warlock isn't the real Antichrist and he doesn't yet know just how true those words will become. But Aziraphale is there, and so are dinners at the Ritz, lunches at Ajimura (Aziraphale still hasn't gotten the hang of the chopsticks, and their waiter takes enough pity on him to bring a fork along with the menus), late nights drinking in the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop, and the sort of comfortable certainty that comes with the knowledge that the person you're eating food with will probably want to do so again, preferably if you're free tomorrow at around noon, perhaps?"Its 1977, and Crowley finally coaxes Aziraphale into dinner at London's first sushi restaurant. Things develop from there.





	One Sweetheart Roll, One Dragon Roll

The London of 1977 suits Crowley rather well. His tapes keep turning into the Best of Queen and he misses the Beatles, but Bowie is alright, even though Crowley had to double check that he was indeed mortal and not something else completely. The band that's playing over the tinny speakers of the restaurant they're in now is singing a about an ancient witch, pretty fair as far as Crowley is concerned, though they did get some of the details wrong. Plus the song comes with the added bonus of making his companion shift uncomfortably in the chair across from him.

Crowley's been coming here since the place opened in '72, but it’s taken almost five years of wheedling to coax the angel to come along. But now that he's here at last, Crowley thinks that perhaps those five years of wheedling could have been spent more effectively on something else. Learning to whittle, perhaps. Or organizing his sock drawer. Anything would be less agonizing than this.

Aziraphale sniffs at the plate in front of him for the third time in what Crowley believes is meant to be a subtle manner. Wouldn't want to offend the chef's preparation, or insult the quality of the ingredients. Unfortunately, the angel is failing utterly at hiding his apprehension, in spite of the brightly colored, glistening morsels of fish and vinegared rice before him that are practically begging to be eaten. He's holding his set of chopsticks awkwardly, like he's never used them before, and Crowley thinks, that can't be right, can it? There's no way he didn't make it over to the east in the past five thousand years or so.

"You love steak tartare and it's basically the same thing," Crowley grumbles, growing impatient with his companion's dithering. "I couldn't get you to shut up about it when we went to that Parisian place in '49."

The sun streaking down out of a cloudless blue sky, Notre Dame in the background, the city picking up the pieces after the events of ‘41 through ‘45, sitting across from each other outside a tiny cafe while Aziraphale ate and chattered on excitedly about the dish and Crowley picked at his chicken, a bottle of Bordeaux that survived the Nazis between them. Crowley pointedly doesn't think about the similarities between the color of that particular sky and the angel's eyes, and is altogether quite affronted when the thought asserts itself anyway.

"Of course but..." Aziraphale's voice drags the demon back to the present, where the angel is helplessly nudging a piece of nigiri with one of his chopsticks, and Crowley finally understands where the problem lies, and thinks he's been about as patient as anyone could reasonably expect to be in such a situation. He rolls his eyes dramatically, annoyed that the gesture isn't evident through his sunglasses - because really, what's the point of indicating how dreadfully put upon you feel when those around you can't even tell - before unwinding his arms and snatching up a piece of sushi with his own pair of chopsticks and sticking it into Aziraphale's open mouth before he's given a chance to protest. The angel's eyes widen in surprise - indignation?- for a moment before he can taste the food and they settle into a delighted sort of glimmer.

"What's this called again?" he asks Crowley once he's chewed and swallowed, and his voice loses all the edge it had. "It is rather tasty, like you said. Unusual texture, but not at all what I was expecting." Crowley preens, and when Aziraphale forgoes the chopsticks entirely to have another piece, he feels as if he could get away with a well placed 'I told you so' and hopes Aziraphale appreciates just how much he is resisting the temptation.

"Try one of the rolls," he says instead. "They've got different things in them, not just the fish and rice." He adds "Don't mind the seaweed," after a beat because he knows it will needle, but Aziraphale gamely takes him up on the offer, attempting the chopsticks again in a valiant effort that one might have been able to call competent, if one squinted a bit and had recently spun around very fast and the world hadn’t quite caught up. The roll, too, passes muster, and Crowley's got him, has successfully navigated Aziraphale's apparent introduction to Japanese food. The phrase 'cherry popping' drifts across his mind and Crowley scolds it away, turning his attention to his own dinner.

Aziraphale is talking now, about the shop and some customer or other who had the unmitigated gall to make an offer on an old book, and usually Crowley would be doing his absolute best to listen, really he would, but a drop of soy sauce is lingering at the corner of the angel's lips and it's... distracting. Aziraphale plows forward into another anecdote without noticing Crowley's pointing to his own face, wiping his own face with a napkin, and the demon is starting to worry that he'll have to do something drastic to make the spot go away before Aziraphale finally gets the hint and raises his napkin. The spot disappears. Thwarted, all the little thoughts and musings in Crowley's brain that had hopefully raised their heads skulk away, back to the corner from which they are strictly forbidden to stray.

The sake is excellent, if lacking the full body of their usual fare, and they're both pleasantly drunk when they stumble out the door to find Crowley's Bentley obediently lingering on the sidewalk, waiting for them. Crowley sobers up enough to drive Aziraphale back to his flat, where they say the sort of things you say after a lovely dinner with an old friend you haven't been out with in some time: goodbyes and promises about trying to get together more often that you don’t quite intend to keep. When that's all done, Aziraphale looks as if he wants to say something more, and Crowley waves and peels off before he can know what it might be.

 

* * *

 

It's years before they're on anything approaching a regular schedule, and Crowley thinks they should receive some kind of commendation for it from someone. It only took six thousand years for their schedules to line up again, after the Eden business. Watching over the Antichrist will bring people together, he supposes, even though Warlock isn't the real Antichrist and he doesn't yet know just how true those words will become. But Aziraphale is there, and so are dinners at the Ritz, lunches at Ajimura (Aziraphale still hasn't gotten the hang of the chopsticks, and their waiter takes enough pity on him to bring a fork along with the menus), late nights drinking in the back room of Aziraphale's bookshop, and the sort of comfortable certainty that comes with the knowledge that the person you're eating food with will probably want to do so again, preferably if you're around tomorrow at around noon, perhaps?

The Ritz is unvarying as Big Ben, but the menu at Ajimura updates at a comparatively breakneck pace. The introduction of the Dragon Roll in '87 was a particular favorite of Crowley's, and Aziraphale was so delighted over the one with the plum sauce, (the sweetheart roll, his treacherous brain supplies) that Crowley had almost prayed for the first time since the Fall for things to go on like this indefinitely, just so his angel can go on smiling like _that_ at the things Crowley shows him. Could even be that someone heard him, because prayer or not, Warlock certainly doesn't seem like he's fit to lead anything more dangerous than a pudgy clan of spoiled seven year olds, much less the four Horsemen and the legions of the damned and Fallen.

And sometimes, late at night, when they can blame it on the wine or the sake or the whiskey, their fingers brush together when they reach for the same bottle or the dinner bill or the TV remote, lingering too long to be a mistake, happening to many times to all be accidents. But Aziraphale doesn't ever talk about it, and, coward that he is, Crowley doesn't want to know why he doesn't, doesn't want to upset the fragile card tower balance of their lives. Maybe 'angel' and 'my dear' will be enough, or maybe they're a beginning. They have all the time in the world to spiral toward some conclusion, if indeed there is one to be found at all.

A repetition of _'do I dare disturb the universe'_ rattles around in his head for nearly a month because he can't remember the rest of the poem to finish it, or who the damn poet was and he isn't about to ask the only being who could tell him in an instant, because that poem would be a little too on the nose for the situation. Something from the Modernists. _I should have been a pair of ragged claws._ Bah. He must be further gone than he thought if he's thinking of the maudlin pretension of the Modernists.

 

* * *

 

The fretting and worry and attempts at disaffection all end up being for nothing of course, because in a single day the whole bloody Antichrist business burns it all to the ground. Before Adam builds it all back up again, when Aziraphale is holding a flaming sword and Crowley's got a tyre iron and they're sputtering feelings at each other - and honestly, fighting the devil is one of the worst ideas he's ever had, but with the angel beside him there is no other decision to be made - there's a moment where Crowley worries he waited too long, it's too late, and he should have -

Then, miracle of miracles upon waking, the Bentley is there, the shop is there, Aziraphale is there. It's not too late, after all.

 

* * *

 

On the first Tuesday of the rest of their lives, in their usual spot in St. Jame's Park, Crowley is trying to determine the most nonchalant way to sit down while his companion lays down a napkin and arrages two bentos from the sushi place on the corner on the bench between them. There's nary a cloud to be seen, with a blue sky like the eyes of an angel, and Crowley is wondering if it's like that intentionally to torment him. He decides that sort of cross legged with one knee propped up against the back of the bench gives off the aura of detachment he's aiming for, and arranges himself accordingly. Aziraphale fusses over the place settings for a moment before sitting back on the bench (properly sitting, mind, with two feet on the ground and legs bent at reasonable ninety degree angles) and sighs with contentment.

"I can't remember the last time we had a sort of picnic," the angel observes. Crowley shrugs.

"Seems silly when perfectly decent restaurants with outdoor seating exist," he shoots back, good naturedly. "And no ants. Or pollen. Histamines. Allergies." Aziraphale tuts softly at him.

"My dear, you don't have allergies." Crowley lets it lie. He can remember the last time, and marvels that Aziraphale cannot. Or perhaps he doesn't want to.

Another meal shared out of doors, almost five hundred years ago, a field near Munster in 1535, far enough away from the horrors that the Prince Bishop had committed on the anabaptists inside, who had already done so many terrible things to each other, and yet close enough to fulfill the bare minimum of orders both their superiors had issued. (Be on hand to cause some more trouble and sow more doubt during this whole Reformation thing; ensure that the breakaway sects still embody the light and word of God) Aziraphale, pale and shaking after seeing the city, after having to bear witness, those blue eyes lacking their usual gleam and the smell of blood in Crowley's nose and his skin itching with memories of the Inquisition fifty years prior, bread and cheese and a hefty amount of beer spread out between them and neither talking, but finding comfort all the same. The bread and cheese they never touched, in the end. Crowley had woken up from a heavy sleep brought on by the lager to find the angel gone, not to be seen for several decades or so. That one had smarted a bit, and Crowley made sure to be extra creative when they met up again in Prague in 1618.

Aziraphale pulls the cover off his lunch, the plastic crinkle a hard reminder of the present, of the London that, despite all odds, still exists, still stands tall and strong enough for two ethereal beings to try and have a nice lunch in the park.

"Everything alright?" the angel asks, and Crowley grins at him, cool and collected, or a close approximation, at any rate.

"Of course," he replies, tearing the cover off his own bento, breaking the plastic, and staring into the rolls, the shumai, the side of rice, and feeling considerably not hungry, despite the fact that this whole thing was his idea. He pushes around the rice with his chopsticks and gazes around the park instead, avoiding the eyes of some of the more discerning waterfowl who operated under the correct assumption that most of the bread people threw them was, quite frankly, utter rubbish, and that the really fine stuff, the stuff humans ate themselves, could be obtained by an endearing look and, failing that, a well placed peck.

The park is populated by its usual fare: ducks, a squalling baby in a pram with a harried looking nanny, and two spies, one KGB and one CIA, by the look of them, stand together by the water feeding the ducks and speaking in low voices. The American's hair is long and strawberry blonde, and it glints in the sunlight with the minute movements of her head, brushes against her associate's coat. Crowley thinks they are perhaps standing closer than truly necessary, even for government operatives, and almost misses the longing gaze accompanied by a small clasp of pinkies between them before the KGB agent departs. The CIA agent's shoulder slump as she tries not to stare after the Russian, and the whole scene strikes a little too close to comfort.

Crowley turns back to Aziraphale, who had also been watching the exchange with a small smile playing about the corners of his mouth. His lunch sits uneaten in his lap - Crowley had stupidly forgotten to ask for a fork - and Aziraphale fiddles with the packet of unopened chopsticks. Crowley is contemplating how to express his remorse for his mistake without actually expressing it verbally when Aziraphale turns to Crowley and the smile widens, turns shy, and a warmth blooms inside of Crowley and the demon simply cannot take this anymore.

He's still exhausted from imagining a flaming hunk of metal and rubber was ever a car, a soft wind is blowing in from the corner of the park, it smells like vinegar and soy sauce and something inside his chest is clenching like a vice and he knows that if he doesn't do something this very human heart is going to burst out of his chest and sing a ridiculous and treacly song about feelings and - He is just. Too. Damn. Tired.

He thinks he must have made some kind of distressed noise, because Aziraphale's face morphs into an expression of concern for an instant before Crowley leans forward and kisses him.

Aziraphale lips are chapped and warm and taste vaguely like the cocoa he had been drinking before Crowley rolled up to the shop and demanded they go out for lunch. One of Crowley's legs is crushed between them and panic begins a frantic stutter in his chest when he realizes that the angel hasn't exactly kissed him back yet, but then a warm pair of hands clutch at his suit jacket lapels, pulling him closer and making Crowley's heart wholly blank out before starting up again like an cranky old motor. The angels lips start to move under his as the takeaway boxes are shoved aside and the shudder creeping up Crowley's spine has nothing to do with the cool, gentle breeze blowing off the pond.

When Crowley pulls back, one look at Aziraphale should tell him all he needs to know. The angel's eyes are wide, lips reddened and slightly parted, looking at Crowley the way his orchids turn toward the sun. But still he has to hear it, has to ask, has to know.

"I don't, is this, are you..." Good job, Crowley, he thinks to himself, his hands flailing about. Babbling. Trè chic. But Aziraphale grabs Crowley's fumbling hands in both of his and settles them for a moment before gently pulling Crowley’s sunglasses off his face, looking him straight in the eyes.

"I think we're a bit past that, love," the angel says. Then he kisses him again, and it's like the sun shining in the depths of Crowley's soul.

 

* * *

 

The ducks quickly consumed the abandoned meal, and if they had had the capacity for doing so there would have been quite a bit of head shaking and half hearted grumblings about knocking food about and leaving without so much as a by your leave. But they could not, and instead consumed the bentos in a frenzy of excited quacking before traipsing off to bother a suspicious looking man in a large black coat and a gun-shaped lump about his person who was, contrary to expectations, not there for any clandestine meeting or information exchange, but had rather a stressful job and found sitting in the park and feeding the ducks on the odd day off soothing in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

The layabouts who had so carelessly forsaken their lunch were wrapped up together in a bed halfway across town. This bed was located in an apartment whose furnishings and decor were so white it was almost reminiscent of heaven. The only things breaking the all monochromatic theme were several lush, green plants that were currently overflowing with equal measures of terror and delight.

Green.

Like Eden.

  
  
  
  



End file.
